


The Clan Now Safe

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: The Outer Rim [17]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Identity, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Post-Episode: s02e03 The Heiress, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28661253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: Din Djarin struggles with feelings of isolation from his kind.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Series: The Outer Rim [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055645
Comments: 18
Kudos: 114





	The Clan Now Safe

There was a funny thing that happened, the longer one got used to space travel. You tended to forget how utterly, indescribably _vast_ space really was. And how damn long it could take to get _anywhere_.

Din stared sullenly at the guts of the Crest’s hyperdrive, willing it to magically start working. His glare did nothing for the innards, which merely let out a feeble puff of smoke and then went inert. He checked the diagnostic screen and got an utter blank for his trouble.

“Dank _farrik_ ,” he snarled. 

A noise by his feet startled him, and he looked down to see the kid playing with one of his spanners, holding it up and swooping it through the air as if it was a ship. Din’s tension faded, and he let out a long breath.

“Having fun, kid?” he asked. The kid looked up at him, waving the spanner cheerfully.

“You hold on to that, buddy. It’s not doing anything for us right now, anyway,” said Din tiredly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept; yesterday? The day before? Perhaps he’d make a much more effective mechanic with a rest, but they were too vulnerable out here without a working hyperdrive. The repair work from Trask hadn’t lasted more than a few days.

His head sank forward, and he realized how much his neck had started to hurt, twisted into the same position for too long as he’d peered into the busted hyperdrive. His body ached with the desire to strip out of his armor and collapse onto his little cot, but it wasn’t an option; he had the kid, and he had the Creed. He’d gotten used to briefly locking the kid in the bunk so he could strip, clean himself, and don his armor anew again, but sleeping without it was now a luxury of the past.

“Oh, come on,” said Din, defeated. “Let’s take a break. Don’t worry, you can bring that with you, I guess.” Din gathered the kid into his arms, who was still clutching the spanner. He frowned to himself, faintly remembering playing with toys, his parents laughing. Maybe the next port town they managed to limp to would have something a little more age appropriate for the kid than a spanner. Or a silver ball on top of a flight lever. The thought prompted a tired smile.

He took the ladder down, the kid burbling at the brief slide down the ladder. He always seemed to enjoy it, though at first Din had been much more cautious with how quickly he descended while holding him. Kid seemed to love going fast, though.

Din set the kid down on the cot and wagged a finger at him. “Look, I gotta clean up, all right? You just play in here with your toy and I’ll be back in a few minutes. Behave yourself.” The kid tilted his enormous ears, giving him a serious _I swear I’ll behave_ look. Din sighed. He’d probably come back in a few minutes to find the place half-destroyed with the kid giving him _that_ particular look, but there was nothing else for it.

The door to the sleeping area hissed closed, and he double-checked that the lock held. He assured himself it was secure, then lifted his helmet off of his head, closing his eyes at the sensation of recycled air on his face.

At least his armor required no special cleaning or repair after a few days spent onboard. That krayt dragon ichor had taken _hours_ of scrubbing with his strongest cleaning materials before it had finally dissolved. Today, thankfully, he had only normal sweat and engine grease to take care of.

He stripped naked, carefully setting aside and cleaning each piece of armor as it came off, making certain each was made new before removing the next component. Pauldrons and vambraces first, followed by cuirass, cuisses, gloves, boots. Finally leather, cloth, and underwear followed. 

He shivered in his skin, chilled, and moved into a brief flow of warrior’s exercises, a simple routine meant to stretch and soothe the muscles. The aches fell away and he breathed deeply, feeling clearer. A quick wash and a nap, and perhaps the damn hyperdrive would make more sense.

He cleaned himself quickly, warm water and a washrag. He passed over old scars with little thought, remembering only briefly a bitter victory, there on his chest; a near-fatal misstep, scrawled jaggedly across his left thigh; a narrow escape, burned onto the right shoulder. All Mandalorians bore scars, and he was not ashamed of his own, nor what they had taught him. 

He dried himself beside the narrow compartment that held his small supply of under-armor clothing, and changed into a new set. Funny how so many moved through life in clothing like this, and yet he still felt as nude in trousers, undershirt, and protective leather as he did wearing nothing at all. He closed the compartment, turning to his armor.

It lay spread out on a small makeshift workbench, each piece gleaming from his efforts. Suspended above it in the mesh on the wall was the armor he’d taken from Cobb Vanth, each piece displayed clearly. The difference was that there was no Mandalorian waiting to don it once again.

He looked between the green-painted helmet with the dent in the skull, to the silver helmet somber on the workbench, and back again. The black visors stared back at him, silent. Soulless.

Like Nevarro.

He reached out, hand trembling, to his own helmet. Remembered for a moment bleeding out from the back of his fractured skull, remembered the agonizing hope that the Armorer could make use of his beskar for the Tribe. He remembered the empty helmets stacked in the sewers, the sacrifice they had paid for him and the child.

He bowed his head, breathing hard, his skin prickling in the cool air. The Way of the Mandalore taught that a noble death was nothing to be feared, that a fallen warrior should be honored and remembered in the tales of the Tribe. But had there still been a Tribe to remember the fallen? Or had they fallen even in memory, like the nameless Mandalorian whose armor hung here empty and forgotten?

“I will remember,” he whispered, voice catching, but he could not bring himself to speak the rites. He had no name to use, no clan to honor, no Armorer to lead the chant. He swallowed, his helmet cold beneath his fingertips, and he thought blearily, _There must be others. There must._ True brothers, sisters, Armorers, surely they were out there still....

But the Razor Crest hung now in a cold, dark void, far from the nearest star, far beyond the nearest of his kind. And the last he had hoped were his kind had been -- something else, something twisted from what he knew to be true. The disorientation of seeing them remove their helmets, the rage and disappointment that had overwhelmed him, it flooded back, along with a deep and terrible sense of being alone. 

He scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand, flinching, and let out a long shaky breath. The Creed pressed upon him, its words both comfort and cruelty. He had been on his own for many years, but always returning to the Tribe, always working with them in mind, always ensuring the foundlings’ care with his earnings --

The foundling.

Din blinked through burning eyes, letting his hands fall to his sides. He should check on the child. But he stood there a moment longer, chest heaving, the rites ringing in his mind, and he ached, ached, ached.

* * *

He was new once more, armor and helmet restored to their rightful places upon his body. He opened the door to the sleeping area, kneeling down beside the kid on the cot, who had fallen peacefully asleep with the spanner still clutched in his hands. 

Din removed the spanner, chuckling, and set it aside. He started to lift the kid up to his hammock, but a sleepy little yawn convinced him he’d do better to leave him there. Instead he lay down next to the kid, curling himself up as tightly as he could to leave room for him.

He shouldn’t have bothered. The kid rolled back toward him, resting a clawed hand on his chest, and Din closed his eyes. He scooped the kid closer into the crook of his arm and settled against the cot, chest rising and falling slowly beneath his armor. 

The Tribe had cared for him, and he for the Tribe, for many years. He hoped desperately that some had survived, that they were fighting for each other and following the Way. He knew the Mandalorians would never fall so long as there was an Armorer to craft the armor, and a warrior’s heart still beating beneath the beskar’gam. The losses were painful, but they were not final.

Clan Mudhorn was safe in the belly of the ship. The child lay cradled in his arm, and Din Djarin knew that he was not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Din + grief + lonely fic prompt requested by anon on tumblr!


End file.
